


Cinnamon Roll

by rehliamonster



Category: Horrortale - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horrortale, Amputation, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Burning Wounds, Cannibalism, Cruel Mercy, Dark, Darkfic, Death Wish, Dismemberment, Dubious Morality, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, Referenced Autocannibalism, Stitches, Unsanitary, Unsanitary Procedures, Urination, Violence, Vomiting, Wound Sterilisation, blue and orange morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rehliamonster/pseuds/rehliamonster
Summary: They call him Sugar, because he’s the sweetest monster in the Underground...





	Cinnamon Roll

**Author's Note:**

> This is fucked up. **Please read the tags and decide carefully whether you actually want to read this.** I was thinking about the original idea for Horrortale as a verse where cannibalism is a part of daily life and how something like that might mesh with the fanon tendency to call Horrotale Papyrus "Sugar" and... well, this is what my mind came up with. The inventor of the name told me to go for it so here we are :) 
> 
> Enjoy...?
> 
> [My tumblr](https://rehlia.tumblr.com/)

You know you lost this battle long before the final hit. 

Papyrus is too capable with his bone attacks and too fast. Even though the constructs aren’t as sturdy as regular bones - a sign of the malnutrition he endures in the Underground? - when they hit you, they hit hard and they hurt. The lack of food on your side ever since you fell down here hasn’t done you any favours either, making you slow and dizzy. 

It happens so fast, one second you’re twisting and jumping to evade a bone, the next you feel a hard hit on your back and topple over into the grey snow. 

You have enough time to notice how incredibly cold it is before everything seems to be swaying and darkness overtakes you.

When you wake up again, all you see is a wooden ceiling, covered in dust and cobwebs. 

There’s a brief moment of disorientation; you don’t know what happened and when you do, you’re surprised you woke up again at all. Then Papyrus leans over you, his face hovering not too far from yours. 

“ARE YOU AWAKE, HUMAN?” 

“Y-yeah,” you stammer out. “What happened? I thought I lost.” 

I thought you only waited for me to fall so you could behead me, like your brother would have, like anyone else would have, is what you mean but don’t say. 

“OH YES. YOU WERE NO MATCH FOR MY EXPERTLY CRAFTED ATTACKS,” he tells you. His loud, screeching voice hurts you in such close proximity. The faint whistle of his lisp makes you glad that he’s physically incapable of spitting on you. “I PULLED BACK BEFORE YOUR HP FELL TO ZERO. THEN I BROUGHT YOU TO MY SHED AND HEALED YOU!”

“You… healed me?” 

That’s the last thing you expected. So far, every monster in the Underground had tried to kill you. Initially you felt sorry for them because they were only doing it because they had no food - starving because your species banished these creatures under a mountain is a pretty terrible fate. Not to mention the kid who apparently passed through here, killing people and took their hope of freedom away. Your compassion fled quickly as the attacks became increasingly brutal and your survival instinct broke through though. On your way through the Snowdin Forest, Sans kept telling you his brother was a sweet guy, but at that point you had no longer found it in you to believe in kindness. Especially not when Sans kept trying to sneak up on you with a bloodied axe and made innuendos about killing you. 

You didn't like his humour; one thing you could actually agree on with Papyrus. Maybe that was a sign. 

“I DID! IT WOULD HAVE BEEN TERRIBLE IF YOU PERISHED AT MY HANDS!” His mismatched eye sockets look sad and his eerie grin, the uneven teeth crusted over with what you until now assumed to be blood, pulls down into a frown. 

Huh. 

“So you won’t kill me?” you try to clarify, still unable to trust this fully, although a small spark of hope begins to grow in your chest. Where you now know your soul to live. 

“OF COURSE NOT! THE GREAT PAPYRUS WOULD NEVER DO SOMETHING SO… MURDERY!” 

He won’t kill you. You’ll stay alive. 

You'll survive this. 

Relief floods you and you actually smile, giving him a grateful look. 

“Thank you,” you sigh. You really got lucky. Maybe there’s a chance for you to get out of here after all… 

Papyrus beams down at you, his horrifying face showing obvious happiness at your gratitude. He leans away and busies himself with something above your head. Automatically, you try to sit up to see what he's doing. 

Your body barely moves. 

“What?” 

You look down, panic rising inside you immediately. What you see has your blood run cold. 

You're strapped to a table. 

Thick leather bands are fastened around your wrists, your upper arms, your chest and belly, your thighs and your ankles. They're not so tight that they would dig into your flesh, but they don't offer you any give either. Your breath speeds up. How did you not notice these until now? And your pants are missing too. Where are your pants?!

“Papyrus,” you say. 

“I REALLY WISH YOU WOULDN'T CALL ME THAT,” he interrupts you. “I TOLD YOU ALL MY FRIENDS CALL ME SUGAR! WE ARE FRIENDS, AREN'T WE?”

“I - sure. Sugar,” you amend, if only because you hope it will work in your favour. “Please untie me. As my… friend.”

“OH, BUT I CANNOT DO THAT!” Sugar protests. “YOU MIGHT END UP HURTING YOURSELF AND THAT WON'T DO!”

“I promise I won't - “ you try, only to interrupt yourself when he turns back to you. 

He's carrying a length of rope which he brings to your leg, considering it carefully before he wraps it around your right thigh just above your knee and pulls it tight. Far too tight.

You heart is hammering in your chest. 

“What are you doing?!” you ask, unable to keep the panic out of your voice. “It hurts!”

“I KNOW IT MIGHT BE A LITTLE UNCOMFORTABLE BUT IT'S ONLY TO STEM THE BLOOD FLOW,” Sugar replies, briefly rummaging with something above your head again. When he returns to his position at your leg, he's carrying a large butcher's knife, old and flecked in red and brown, blood and rust running into each other. 

“No, no, what are you doing?!” You pull harder at your restraints, trying to free yourself. They don't give and chafe at your skin the more you struggle. “Stop!”

“DON'T WORRY, I SAID I WOULDN'T KILL YOU!” Sugar says. It's not the least bit reassuring.

Your leg is starting to change colour below the point where the rope is tied. It feels swollen and pulsing and it hurts. 

“Please. Please stop. Please let me go.” Your voice is wavering. You’ve been scared a lot ever since you fell down here but never like this. There was never a situation where you’ve been trapped like this. 

“NOW, DON’T BE SELFISH! I HELPED YOU AND NOW IT’S YOUR TURN TO HELP ME! THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO AND YOU DON’T WANT TO BE A BAD FRIEND!” Sugar tells you cheerfully. 

“Please, please, I’ll do something else for you, I can…” you scramble to come up with something, anything. 

“THAT WON’T BE NECESSARY, THANK YOU. THIS FLESH IS EXACTLY WHAT I NEED. DON’T WORRY, I’LL MAKE IT QUICK!” Sugar says. 

“No, I don’t want - Sugar, no, please no no _no_ \- “

He rises the butcher’s knife. You can’t believe this is happening. It can’t be real. You always got away before. This can’t be happening to you. 

The knife comes down. 

“No _no no NO NO NOOO AAAAAAAAAH_!!”

The knife isn't sharp enough to cut all that deep. It sticks out of your thigh, maybe an inch into the flesh, blood welling up around the rusty blade. 

It burns.

It hurts _so much_. 

You still can't believe this is happening to you. 

“Sugar _please_!!” It's half a scream and half a sob, and you don't know when you started crying. 

“THERE THERE.” He yanks the knife out of you, a spill of blood following in its wake. There's no reprieve before he brings it down again, and again, hacking deeper. 

Your muscles spasm as you scream, straining against your restraints as your body tries to escape the pain. It's useless. You're tied up too well. 

“HMMMM.” Sugar suddenly pauses. The knife is now deep in your thigh, scraping against your bone. 

He studies your face. You give him a pleading look without even thinking about it, trying your best to make him stop. 

God, please let him stop. 

He moves up and you hear him rummage above your head again. When he comes back he presses a rubber block attached to leather straps into your mouth before you can react. 

“Mmmnbh?!”

“I FORGOT BUT YOU SHOULD HAVE THIS IN YOUR MOUTH. SO YOU DON'T BITE OFF YOUR TONGUE! I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOU UNNECESSARILY AFTER ALL!” Sugar explains as he fastens the straps. You can't protest his assessment of not hurting you more than necessary.

You can't do anything but sob through the gag, dreading what's yet to come.

Sugar moves back down to your leg once more. He continues to hack away at your flesh and bone, ruthless in his movements. A sharp flinch from your side accompanies each downward swing. You're crying uncontrollably. Whenever the blade meets the bone it hurts more than anything else you've ever experienced. Your head is swimming. You think you black out once or twice. 

“WELL THIS ISN'T WORKING!” Sugar suddenly announces. “I REALLY NEED TO SHARPEN THIS SOON!” 

He moves away from your leg. 

You look down and nearly throw up at the sight of your mutilated flesh. The only thing that stops you is the thought of the gag in your mouth. You can see your muscle. Your skin is tattered around the cuts. The would is dirted with flaked off rust. It’s all glistening in deep dark red, your blood collecting on the table underneath you, pooling and sticking your skin. You sob harder. 

Sugar returns but without the butcher's knife. Instead he's carrying a circular saw. 

Something hot and wet suddenly spreads between your legs. A sharp, stinging smell rises. 

“HUMAN THAT IS VERY MESSY OF YOU!” Sugar scolds you with a frown. 

You sob into your gag. You don't have enough emotional room left to feel ashamed for pissing yourself. 

“OH WELL. I'LL JUST CLEAN IT UP WITH THE BLOOD LATER,” Sugar shrugs. He pushes a button on the circular saw and the tool comes alive, the round blade spinning so fast you can't see the teeth anymore. He lowers it down. 

“ _NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGHHHHHH!!!!_ ”

“HUMAN REALLY YOU MAKE SUCH AN UNNECESSARY FUSS ABOUT IT!” Sugar scolds you. 

The saw is in your bone. 

It's like fire. It's worse than having a rusty blade hacking into your flesh and worse than the blade hitting the bone. It's all consuming. The saw cuts deeper and you feel something crack. 

Darkness overcomes you.

But it doesn't last. 

The pain is so intense that you wake up far too soon. 

“THERE WE GO. SEE, THAT DIDN'T TAKE TOO LONG!” Sugar is holding your severed leg up to show you. You can see the raw, bloody flesh where he chopped you up, the white bone in the centre. You feel sick. 

Unlike last time, you don't manage to hold back. 

Vomit pushes up your throat and gathers in your mouth as it's unable to get past the gag, only bits of fluid leaking past it. The bitter taste only makes you gag more, heaving and coughing and nearly making you choke on your own sick. 

Sugar looks annoyed with you but at last he undoes the buckles of the gag. You can't move enough to lean over the table. All you can do is turn your head to the side. Your vomit spills out of your mouth and gathers next to your head, leaking under your hair, your neck, your shoulder. 

You cough and then just breathe for a bit when it's over. 

Your throat hurts, your head is pounding, your heart is hammering painfully in your chest. The less you think about the agony of your leg the better. You don't want to be awake anymore. You don't want to be here.

“I want to go home,” you sob. Your voice sounds dead.

“THAT'S UNDERSTANDABLE. MY HOME IS MY FAVOURITE PLACE TOO,” Sugar says. You hear him rummage above your head again. When did he go there? Everything seems to be skipping around. 

He returns to your leg stump and you don't have it in you to protest against whatever he’s going to do anymore. You don't even look. 

You don't want to know. 

He's touching your raw flesh and your bone. Then there’s a burning sensation again - actual burning this time. The smell of burnt meat rises. Your entire body is shaking. You notice only now that you’re screaming again, the sound tearing at your throat. 

Sugar moves the torch away and it feels warm and the pain recedes. For a bit anyway, before you feel a sting and a pull, a sting and a pull, a repeating pattern of pricks and something tying them together. He’s sewing up your wound and healing you, you realise. More warmth seeps into the wound. You’re still crying, though no longer solely from the physical pain. 

“THAT SHOULD DO IT!” Sugar announces, giving your leg a little pat. You flinch when the stump begins to throb. “SEE? THAT WASN'T SO BAD, WAS IT? IT DIDN’T EVEN TAKE ME MORE THAN AN HOUR!” 

You hate him, but you’re too scared to tell him. Instead, you nod through your tears. Sugar gives you his widest smile yet at your compliance and begins to untie you. 

There are images of tackling him floating through your mind, but you know they’re unrealistic. You didn’t manage to fight and win against him when you were still healthy earlier, and now… a sob forces itself out of your throat again. It’s so hard to breathe. 

“COME ON, SIT UP!” Sugar encourages you. When you don’t react fast enough, he manhandles you upwards until you’re sitting. 

It leaves you with a premium view of what used to be your leg. There’s only a stump now, covered in shoddily stitched up scars, angry red welts that have small beads of blood still dripping out between the thick black threads of the stitches. Below you, the table you’re on is covered with your piss and blood. It’s reeking. Just like you. You still feel the wetness on your underwear and the sick crusting in your hair and and neck and shoulder. Sugar maneuvers you back into your pants without bothering to clean you up. They get dirty from the mess as well.

“HERE, TAKE THESE,” Sugar instructs you. You barely have the energy to turn your head and look at him. He’s pushing two rickety wooden sticks at you with a triangular contraption at the tops… crutches. 

He forces them into your hands when you don’t take them immediately. You don’t feel ready to get up but his impatient glare mobilises the very last of your reserves. He accompanies you to the door as you limp away. 

“DON’T BE SAD THAT I CAN’T ACCOMPANY YOU, HUMAN!” Sugar says. “I HAVE TO PREPARE THE MEAT, SO IT WILL HOLD LONGER. ALTHOUGH SOME I’LL PREPARE FRESH OF COURSE TO SAVOUR IT. I’M SURE MY BROTHER WILL LOVE IT. IT WILL FEEL GOOD TO EAT PROPERLY AGAIN. ISN’T THAT NICE?” 

You sob harder. 

“IF YOU WANT, YOU COULD COME OVER FOR DINNER LATER,” Sugar ponders. “YOUR LEG IS QUITE JUICY, WE COULD SPARE YOU A LITTLE!”

You limp out of the door. 

“JUST CALL ME IF YOU WANT TO DROP IN!” Sugar calls after you. 

You ignore him and move on. Leaving the shed behind you where he did this to you. You finally stop when you’re nearly out of the town. 

You’re alone. You’re reeking of piss and vomit and blood. You’re visibly injured, limping, unable to run or fight. You feel dizzy. Your leg throbs with pain. It feels as if you should still be able to move your knee and your ankle and your toes, but you can’t. There’s nothing there anymore. 

The thought that at least you’re still alive is of no comfort as you look up ahead, trying to imagine the dangers you might still run into. Like this you’re easy pickings for any monster you come across. 

Briefly, you think about going back, but Sugar with his ideas of kindness and mercy - no. You’ll take whatever lies ahead. 

Perhaps they’ll at least make your death quick before they cut you up.


End file.
